Requiem of Grief
by Genesis Grey
Summary: What happens when an elf sees her lover in the arms of another?


Title: Requiem of Grief  
Author: Genesis Grey (helfireclub@hotmail.com)   
Rating: PG   
Disclaimer: Tolkien's estate owns everything. I own nothing. If I did it wouldn't be fanfiction. ^_~   
Warning: Angst and about a paragraph of slash.  
Authors Notes: I've always been utterly fascinated at the idea of elves dying of grief and just how exactly that happens. This is an AU fic and that's all I think I'll say. Give it a read and tell me what you think. ^_^  
::Requiem of Grief::  
  
  
  
/"… the hearts of men are easily corrupted…"/  
  
Galadriel's words echoed in her ears as she stumbled through the forest. All elven grace had fled from her form as she tripped and slipped over roots and fallen leaves, thorns tore at her hair and skin and gown. She let out a choked cry as she fell and tumbled down the steep bank of the river. Her body splashed into the shallow cold water, her skin bruising and breaking on the worn rocks. The water washed around her still body, forming eddies of brown and red.  
  
But her still heart beat steadily in her chest.   
  
She didn't know how far or how long she'd been running. Days she supposed. Not that it mattered. All time had become meaningless. Everything had become meaningless. The world was dark now. Darker than Sauron could ever have made it.   
  
For the first time in her long life her heart skipped a beat.   
  
A low howling moan, like a fatally wounded animal, escaped her lips as she began to flail in the cold rushing water. She rose to her feet and began to run once more, unable to be still, needing to feel the freedom of movement. As she ran her voice rose until a haunting cry trailed down the river and made all that heard it shiver in dread.   
  
She splashed through the water as she ran on endlessly. She could hardly feel below her knees, so numb from the cold and pain were her legs. But she didn't care. She'd seen it. She'd seen them. She'd seen them together.   
  
Her heart felt like it was breaking.   
  
Aragorn. Legolas. Their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace. Aragorn. Legolas. Arching against one another. Aragorn. Legolas. Proclaiming their love for one another. Aragorn. Legolas. Their words rang in her ears.   
  
"I love you and no other, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."   
  
"And I love you and no other 'til the end of all time, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil."   
  
She wailed as she fell into the water again and beat her hands against the current. Had she not given her love to Estel? Had he not willingly taken it? Had she not forsaken her immortality for the life of a man? Did he not say he loved her? Had she not given him a son? A daughter? Had he ever loved her?   
  
She forced herself to her feet and moved forward. Slower now as her weariness began to take hold. Her gown was tattered and torn and she pulled the bits around her self as she walked on, fording the river and steadily treading the opposite riverbank.   
  
She knew where she was now.   
  
Her bloody feet walked the familiar path through the valley as her mind traveled to happier times. Her mother. Her father. Her brothers. A place where she belonged and an Estel that loved her. But all that was gone now.   
  
She passed through the gates of Imladris. Rivendell. A feeling of nostalgia coursed through her and her fatigue subsided as she ran to the Last Homely House, through the corridors, and to the Hall of Fire. She threw open the doors and let out a strangled cry. No fire burned in the hall where the fire was never to grow dim or die. She managed a only few more steps before all the pain and lassitude returned and she collapsed on the floor in a sobbing heap.   
  
Her father's chair still stood in the hall where it had always been, and as she looked at it through teary eyes she remember the days before Estel had set out with the fellowship. When he'd held her hands, even under the watchful eyes of her protective father, and had looked on her with love and adoration.   
  
But now that look lingered on Legolas, not her.   
  
She moaned as she rose and moved forward to the cold fireplace. There was still wood and fire makings about and after a moment of stumbling with numb and wet hands she managed to start a fire. Slow at first, catching the kindling and bits of grass, and then moving onto the larger pieces until it was a roaring blaze.   
  
She managed a shaky smile. The fire made the room infinitely more hospitable. She turned her head and looked at the Hall of Fire, remembering her father's smile as she danced and the others sang songs and told tales. The warm conversations and gentle jibes of her brothers. Even the gentle hobbit whose rhymes in the common tongue never failed to bring a smile to her face.   
  
She looked down at her clothes and frowned. The scraps of the human gown would not do. Rising from the fireside she moved from the room like a ghost, silently, but leaving footprints of blood and mud in her wake. She hummed a little as she moved, spreading her arms and watching in amusement the way the wet satin swung in the air. Walking down the corridor she came to a door that had not been opened in many ages. Her mother's room. Even before her father and brothers sailed to Valinor they still refused to enter the room.   
  
But now she entered it.   
  
She looked over the room. It was mostly bare, except for the furniture and a painting of long diminished Lothlorien. She walked into the room and dusted off a dressing table mirror and took a seat in front of it. A cloud of dust puffed around her as she sat on the stool. She coughed slightly as she picked up a gray brush. It had once been silver she supposed. And began to brush the wet tangles out of her hair. She pulled at the twigs and leaves, tossing them to the floor.   
  
Her heart felt cold now, nearly numb.   
  
When her hair had been brushed to a fine sheen of darkness she rose and walked to toward the large dresser against the wall. Opening it she found all of her mother's gowns still there. Her fingers ran over the fine fabric, touching each dress until her fingers came to a light blue gown. She pulled it out. It was the dress her mother had worn that day. The last day she had seen her dear mother alive, emotionally anyway. The day before the orc arrow struck her mother's shoulder and the orc cruelty struck her mother's heart.   
  
She imagined she knew how that felt now.   
  
Taking down the dress she stripped off the remains of her gown and tossed them to the floor. They were the garments of a human queen that she had never wanted to be, but had been for the love of one who, in the end, proved unworthy.   
  
Her heart clenched in her chest, apparently not numb enough.   
  
Slowly she donned her mother's gown, closing her eyes as the elven silk flowed over her bruised body. It felt heavenly after the years of wearing dull, binding human clothing, made of coarse and uncomfortable fabrics. She twirled and the loose skirt spun around her, displacing the dust.   
  
Her heart cried out in pain.   
  
She began to dance, spinning from her mother's room and down the corridor of the Last Homely House. She remembered the days of her youth when her parents would laugh at her flailing limbs as she tried to imitate the beautiful elven dancers she loved. She remembered pulling her brothers out to dance, Elrohir always being more difficult than Elladan. She remembered how Estel would never dance with her for fear of her father.   
  
Her heart grieved for the long gone times of love and happiness.   
  
She fell to the ground in mid twirl as she danced to the middle of the Hall of Fire. She smiled even as tears streaked down her face, glinting in the firelight. She crawled across the rest of the room and pulled herself up into her father's chair as she had done many times when she as a child. She longed for the comfort of her father's arms.   
  
Her heart screamed in fury and pain.   
  
She wanted to tell her father she was sorry. That he had been right as he always was. That Estel was a good man and a wonderful king, but that he was still a Man. Like Isildur before him, unable to resist the great temptation the Valar set before him. And now he was lost to her. And she to her family.   
  
Her heart broke.   
  
She looked at the fire, watching the dancing licks of red and orange flames as they swirled about, illuminating the hall. She was tired. Her body felt limp and drained. Her soul was weary beyond repair. The flames flickered and she smiled as all the memories of happy times spent in this room came to her, as did the realization she would never have those times again. They were gone. Forever.   
  
Her heart stopped.   
  
When the riders arrived in Rivendell, led by the young prince Eldarion, they found Arwen, Queen of Gondor and Arnor, lying in a grand chair beside the soot of a recently burnt fire. She was dressed in the regal way of the elves and looked to show no signs of age or ailment. The prince hung his head as he knelt before his mother. Except for the stains of tears on her gentle face no one would have known she died of grief. 


End file.
